


I'm (Not) Okay

by pok3d3x



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Support, Team as Family, no editing we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15045776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pok3d3x/pseuds/pok3d3x
Summary: *Spoilers for ep23: Have Bird, Will Travel*Directly following the fight as Beau offers Caleb booze. Spiraling thoughts are nothing new to Caleb, but he's unprepared to find how he feels as they set back towards town as a team.





	I'm (Not) Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Well, at least as my world is falling apart, I can write about a fake, damaged group of friends and live vicariously through their healing friendship.

One was water, the other was booze, and there was no hesitation for Caleb as he downed the latter. Burning, hollow faces burned in his eyes even as he shut them so hard he colors swirled behind his eyelids. 

Beau had his elbow, and he briefly considered how unfortunate that was—he couldn't fall over and suffocate on the stagnant water and festering rot of the swamp.

She asked if he was okay, he was pretty sure, and all he could do was smile. It was a broken, thin lipped smile that he knew only conveyed how not okay he was. He was broken, and he'd just applied pressure to the cracks until the ice gave and brackish water gurgled up through the splintered edges to show everyone how very not okay he was. 

Caleb wanted to break down, grow silent and statuesque, and angrily scream he was not okay all at the same time—but as her grip on his elbow squeezed tight with concern, he forced out simple, broken words, that he was fine. He had to be.

This was her trying so hard to be a friend, this was him with the opportunity to show friendship wasn't wasted on him even if he felt it actually was, it had been his only option to save his friend—he had to be okay.

He went through her skin of alcohol fast, enough that the burn of the stuff never cooled off enough for him to taste what he was downing. His knuckles were white, and his fist shook with the now nearing empty skin.

Jester's flat comment about his mental health dug through his muddled thoughts, and with the look Yasha gave him, he felt the urge to sing out that nothing was wrong, he had it all under control. But with his tight throat from his rising dread and the alcohol burning in his stomach and through his blood, he feared he'll be flat, and a change in key could change a sentence's meaning in Celestial. 

So he had to just keep shaking his head yes, smiling yes, yes yes yes he was fine. He almost couldn't answer Nott's question, as much as he _knew_ she deserved an answer more than anyone else. He pushed himself to refocus the group's thought on the fact Fjord was alive, because he couldn't take one more second of even thinking they may be wondering—what was wrong with him, was he okay, would he melt down, did he need help—and forcing cheery words out became so easy with the buzz that was hitting him, as well as the swirling, depressive thoughts that reminded him he wasn't worth their concern.

But he had to make it back to the inn. He had to keep his calm, because his fire was what could protect them if they were attacked by another troll, and even if he didn't deserve their friendship, he owed them his best to protect them. For dealing with him, for letting him tag along when he knew he was really a burden.

He quelled a sob only through rationalizing it was selfish—anything that drew their sympathy was selfish because he brought this upon himself for being a terrible person.

Beau squeezed his elbow once more, and he looked to her with a stricken, drunken expression. Was she becoming impatient with how slow he was beginning to walk? But no… her expression was the conflicted concern of someone who was never shown enough concern themself, so never learned how much they should show to others. Her heart must be aching for her to show so much his way, even if it was just a light draw of her brow and a small, lopsided frown.

"I'm…" His heart lifted as he saw hope brighten in her eyes. "I'm fine," he assured her, finding he really meant it. "Thank you for the booze, it must have been just what I needed."

It was her walk with him, her confused but earnest attempt to ground him, her consistent if unsure support on their way back to town—It wasn't the warmth in his gut from the alcohol… it was the warmth in his chest he wasn't sure he deserved, but wanted so badly to hold on to, that made him realize his words were true.


End file.
